Classic Rock Shorts
by Giraffefeather
Summary: Everything from the Monkees to the Beatles to the Who... Mostly lovey-dovey shorts, but there's some variety. Most don't need any rating warnings, but swearing occurs in one or two. There are warnings at the top of the chapters that need them. I do take requests, just let me know!
1. Kisses with Lennon

_Short one, also a tumblr request. Introducing... Missy and John Lennon!_

It had been at least five minutes since either of them had looked away. Lost in each other eyes, they sat next to each other on the bed, the cushy blankets allowing them to sink into it.

Finally, John broke the silence. "You have beautiful eyes, love."

She smiled and blushed. "I say you do."

"No," he whispered, placing a hand rough with guitar calluses on her cheek, cupping her face and pulling her close, "You." Before she could reply, he touched his lips to hers, effectively silencing any words she once had. The gentle kiss became more passionate, and his other hand went to her side, wrapping around her waist and pulling her body close so she was on his lap.

Missy wrapped her arms around his back, feeling the skin and the muscles below. She pressed against him, his warmth soaking through both of their clothes so she could feel it.

She felt them tipping to the side, towards the soft bed, but didn't care. They landed on the cushioned mattress, still wrapped together, pulling each other closer, their mouths still intertwined.

Finally, they broke apart, gasping for air, but not letting go.

John spoke first. "Missy, I think I love you."

With a dreamy smile still playing on her face, Missy replied, "Johnny, I think I love you, too."

He squeezed her into a bear hug. "I changed my mind. I know I do."

She smiled and whispered into his ear. "Me too."


	2. Kisses with McCartney

_More from my tumblr writing. Introducing Paul McCartney and Emily!_

"Good morning, sunshine," he said, looking across the room at where Emily was blearily blinking sleep out of her eyes. He was shirtless and pantless, in the process of putting clothes on over his boxers.

"Morning," she replied, squinting in his direction as her brain woke up. Once she realized he was half-naked, it was a lot easier to break the bonds of sleep. "Morning," she repeated, a bit of seduction creeping into her voice.

He grinned and sent her a wink, pulling some trousers out of the closet. "Sleep well, love?"

"You should come back to bed," she pleaded, ignoring his question.

The decision was on his face as soon as he made it, but he pretended to be indecisive. "I dunno…"

She raised an eyebrow. That was all he needed.

"If you insist," he said, grinning as he took a few steps towards the bed and slid onto it, pulling the sheets back to allow himself entrance under them.

"Oh, I do insist," she replied, wrapping her arms around his shoulders as he pulled her waist closer to him. He tangled his legs up with hers, cuddling up as close as he could.

Brushing back a lock of Emily's hair from her face, Paul smiled. "You have the face of perfection." He brushed his thumb against her cheek softly. "Absolute perfection."

She blushed and ducked her head, placing it on his chest. Listening to his heartbeat and feeling the warmth emanating from him, she closed her eyes in bliss. This was it. This was where she wanted to be.

This was where he wanted to be, too. He began to stroke her hair, lingering in the places he knew she liked scratched best. "How did I get such a wonderful bird?"

She looked up at him, her face merely an inch from his. "By being the perfect man."

He smiled, a dreamy look in his eyes. "I love you, Em."

"I love you, too."

And suddenly, they had their lips locked, kissing passionately as they rolled on the bed, refusing to let go. Paul held her gently but firmly, both in his arms and with his lips. They continued this, hearts beating faster, breath ragged. They separated lips once, and looked into each other's eyes, but were quickly locked together as one once more.


	3. Tork's Little Secret

_Little Peter Tork, AKA ball of sunshine, fluff for ya! Written in 2nd person perspective, which is still a bit weird for me, but some people seem to like it._

The conversation ended as soon you walked into the room, silence filling the air that had previously been filled with voices and laughter. As if that wasn't suspicious enough, not one of the Monkees would make eye contact with you, just smiled knowingly at each other.

"What?" you asked, looking from face to face for clues. Davy's eyes sparkled, as they did when he was thinking about romance. Which, honestly, was the majority of his life. Mike hid his grin behind his arm until he could get his face under control and back to the serious look he often had. Micky looked down at his feet, grinning as if they had told him a wonderful joke. His face was flushed from laughter. Peter's cheeks were flushed, too, and his goofy grin filled his face with sunshine.

No one answered your question, though.

"Come on, guys, what is it?" you asked. It was rare that they would leave you out of a joke and none were shy about sharing their life stories, except maybe Mike. But even Mike would give little hints, not this blatant silence.

Finally, Mike replied, "Nothing. It's nothing." As if that was a good answer.

You rolled your eyes. "Yeah. Sure."

Peter flinched slightly at the snippy tone, unused to any level of irritation from you.

Davy added, "It really wasn't important, honest. Just another love story. You're sick of those by now, aren't you?" He glanced quickly at Peter, then back at you.

You sat down on the empty chair in the room. "I like love stories as much as the next person. Do explain."

Micky shook his head. "No!" he cried out in a mock shrill voice, "It can't be done! You won't pry it out of us, you won't!"

"Besides," Mike added in a much less comical tone, "It's the same plot as all the others. Boy meets girl, boy falls in love with girl… It's not even a complete story, really."

By this time, Peter had slipped quietly out of the room, although he could be heard tripping over something in the room over. Probably a mess of clothes or props left out on the floor. Sometimes, the four of them were anything but neat.

"It was complete enough to talk about with each other," you pout, looking for more information.

"That's only because Peter brought it up!" Micky said defensively. His eyes widened and he clapped a hand over his mouth as if he had given something away.

"Brought what up?" you pried, "Romance? Is Peter in love?"

Davy bit his lip, then blurted, "Yes!" He looked down at the floor, ashamed.

"With who?" you asked, heart pumping. Usually when one of them had a crush, you were one of the first to know. Davy talked about his nearly every day. Micky and Mike would bring up who they thought was attractive, as well. Peter, however, had never shared anything like that. You had assumed it was just his childish nature that caused him not to fall in love, but it seemed you were wrong.

Davy mumbled something under his breath. Mike's eyes flickered up to you before glancing down at the floor once again. Micky kept his hand over his mouth, shaking his head vigorously.

"Fine," you said, then walked out of the room, slamming the door behind you before placing an ear to the door to hear their next conversation. And boy, was it worth it!

Through the door, you could hear Micky sigh loudly. "Good thing none of us gave away that he's in love with her!"

The others agreed as a small smile spread across your face. Peter Tork, adorable sunshine, had a crush on you. It was confirmed.


	4. Dolenz Cuddles

_Some cute fluffy cuddling with Micky Dolenz. 2nd person perspective ("you" perspective). Short and sweet._

He didn't say anything, didn't need to. He had been able to read your subtle body language for a while now, having spent so much time with you, every spare minute he had in fact. No, he said nothing. Just scooted closer on the couch and pulled you into his arms.

Micky held you close, first squeezing you tight, then gently stroking your hair, occasionally pausing to scratch the parts of your head he knew felt best. As your head lowered to his chest, he rested his own chin on your hair, moving one hand to wrap around your side, the other to rest on your shoulder.

"Hey sweetheart," he whispered, his breath warm. His lips were so close, they tickled your skin, "I love you."

He tucked a strand of hair behind your ear so he could better see your face and the smile that warmed his heart. He loved that smile. It was the main reason for his antics these days, anything to bring out that flash of teeth and beautifully curved lips, an expression of joy.

"I love you, too," you find yourself whispering, snuggling closer to his warm chest. He leans back on the couch, taking you with him so you're curled up on top of him. He rubs his hands down your back, causing your shirt to rise a bit.

His own grin forms after your declaration of love, and he reaches his lips to yours, locking them together as he continues to hold you close, comfortingly. He wraps a leg around one of yours, doing his best to entangle himself closer to you. Even after the kiss ends, he holds you, just glad to have you near him.


	5. The Prank Call

_Poor Mickey... _

No one knew he was in love. That was Davy's gig, not his. No, he was the funny one, the one always acting up. He couldn't fall in love, that wouldn't fit his role.

But he did. Micky had fallen hopelessly in love. And he wanted to tell the world, wanted to be as brave as Davy, storming up to some strange woman and wooing her with ease. But he wasn't, and he couldn't do that.

Still… his hand lay resting on the phone, her number at the front of his mind. It seemed so easy, calling her up and saying three simple words. The worst she could do was laugh, and he was always being laughed at for his antics! So why was this so hard?

He took a deep breath and picked up the phone, quickly dialing her number on the rotary before he could lose his surge of courage.

The other line rang once. Twice. By the third ring, Micky's hand was slipping off the phone, sweaty from nerves. Then, she answered.

"Hello?"

He froze and said nothing, didn't even breathe.

"Hello? Anyone there?" she repeated.

He opened his mouth to speak, and panicked. "H-hello," he began, but quickly reverted back to his joking manner. It was more comfortable that way. "Yes. Yes, hello, ma'am, I was just wondering if your refrigerator is working?"

"Yes," she replied slowly, "Yes, it's working."

"Mhm," Micky said, "Wonderful. And this refrigerator… How much does it make?"

There was a pause. "I'm sorry?"

Micky repeated himself. "How much does it make? If it works, surely it makes money, that's just how it is, isn't it?"

"Well… I suppose," she replied.

Micky nodded. "Yes, well, you go ahead and ask that fridge of yours what its salary is and give me a call back, sound good? Okay." He hung up quickly, not giving her a chance to reply. Of course, he didn't leave his number, so there was no threat of her calling back.

Whispering into the empty room, he added the one thing he wanted to tell her most of all. "I love you."


	6. Shy Nesmith

_Mike Nesmith being adorable and shy and aw! 2nd ("you") person perspective_

Mike could feel his hands break out in a cold clammy sweat. Oh no, here we go again, he thought, wiping them off on his jeans. He looked in your direction, noting the swoop of your hair and the way your eyes scanned the crowd in the busy restaurant, sharp eyes that reminded him of a hawk's. He admire those eyes so.

"Go on," Davy murmured, "talk to her." He had his eyes on a girl on the other side of the room, his love of the day. Or maybe only the hour…

Mike took a deep breath, did his best to make his hands less clammy, and walked in your direction. He seemed to shrink shyly when you spotted him.

"Hello," he said as he approached you. He offered a smile, one that you returned. Oh good, at least I got a smile, he thought, That's something anyway.

He took a seat across from you, looking down and fiddling his thumbs. a nervous trait that was very uncharacteristic for him. "So…" he drawled, "I'm glad you made it."

You smiled. "I was beginning to think you weren't going to."

He ducked his head bashfully.

"I'm glad you did," you continued, noting that his head popped up again and his eyes sparkled.

"Yeah? I… Thank you," he replied awkwardly, clearing his throat. He wanted so bad to tell you, to get it out in the open, but didn't want to mess anything up. He already had you as a friend, and he would be an idiot to lose his most valued friendship. At the same time, he wanted so much to say it, say how he really felt, and see if you felt the same. "You know… You look very nice today."

You blush a little. "Thanks, Mike. You do, too."

"You look nice every day," he added, then paused before continuing, "There's… there's something I want to tell you."

"What is it?" you ask, thinking you might know the answer. He hadn't been doing a great job of hiding it, leaving little hints in the way he talked to you, the way he acted around you. His eyes gave it away with the sneak peaks he took out of the corner of his vision, his lips twitched when he was with you, as if wanting a kiss. His attention focused on you more than anything.

He looked around, almost in a panic. "I… Oh it's nothing. Nevermind."

"No," you beg, "Tell me. What is it?"

He shook his head. "It's stupid."

You place a hand over his on the table, holding it supportively, butterflies flitting around in your stomach as they did the same in his. "I'm sure it's not stupid," you argue softly.

With that, Mike's face turns a blush red you've never seen on him before. He takes a breath, encouraged by your supportive gaze. He says your name, savoring each sound, each letter. "I… I think I love you." His heart pounded, his brain called the words back, wanting them to come back, to never have been said. But it was too late. The words he feared to say had escaped his lips, and weren't going back.

He looked confused as your grin widened, then relief as you say back, "You know, I think I love you too, Mike Nesmith."


	7. Falling, Yes I am Falling

_It's been decided by my friends that I am to be shipped with George Harrison. It has been done._

The street was empty, as it usually was, and I almost hoped it stayed that way. At the same time, though, I hoped someone would come to my rescue. I had been stuck up in the tree for at least two hours, feeling as if I would soon become a part of the tree after staying glued to its branch for so long.

Not that I had a choice in if anyone would come waltzing along. Either they would or they wouldn't.

And someone did. He was slim and tall, strolling along as he whistled softly to himself, not a care in the world. Occasionally, he would stop to admire the wildflowers blooming on the side of the road, whispering to them approvingly before moving on.

I stayed quiet, deciding that it would be far too embarrassing for him to know I was treed like a hunting dog's prey. No, I would rather suffer than ask help from him. Under any other circumstance, I would have gladly made his acquaintance, but this? No. No no no.

It didn't matter, though. Something caught his attention, and he jerked his gaze up to the branch I clung to. "Hello," he said, after a pause, "Nice day for a climb."

I giggled nervously. "Uh… yeah. Wonderful."

He looked down at the kite I had long since dropped on the ground so far below. I had forgotten about that, the villainous plaything that got me up here in the first place. "Kite rescue mission?" he asked.

"Something like that," I replied, palms sweating. I readjusted my grip carefully on the bark.

He nodded. "You going to come down?"

I shrugged, faking nonchalance. "Maybe when I'm ready."

"You ready now?"

I gave him a quick glare. "No." Yes. Yes I was ready to get down, but I was not letting him know.

"Okay," he said with a shrug, "Have fun in your tree."

"Oh, I will," I replied, watching as he walked away. He turned and stepped underneath my branch, so I leaned over, following him with my gaze. Unfortunately, I leaned over a little too much.

My hands slipped, grazing over the bark with a grip too weak to support my body. I fell in what seemed like slow motion, turning over as I slipped so I watched the branch, my branch, become further and further away. It was almost better that way. I wouldn't see when I hit the ground.

But I didn't hit the ground. I felt strange arms on my back, thin but strong. They slowed my fall, then brought me back up and close to some man's chest. I looked up into a face that was only somewhat familiar. For a moment, I couldn't speak, only looked into the deep dark brown eyes sitting above chiseled cheekbones.

He broke the silence. "You okay?"

"Yeah," I said, searching my mind for a snarky response, but coming up empty. He lowered my legs carefully to the ground, but kept an arm around my back as a support. With nothing else to say, I simply added, "Thank you."

"My pleasure," he replied with a toothy grin, "I'm George, by the way."

"Hi," I said, "I'm Courtney. And I prefer the ground to trees."

He laughed. "Nice to meet you. I also like to leave the trees for the birds. The prettiest birds can be found in trees."

I searched his eyes and found a glimmer of humor and something else. Some glint of longing, of hope. Blushing, I realized the same look was likely visible in mine.


	8. Swimsuits

_The Monkees just wanna swim! 2nd person ("you") perspective._

"Come on," Davy pleaded, "It'll be fun!"

"Yeah," Micky agreed, "A good old splash in the pool, water wars, cannonballs-"

"And underwater tea parties!" Peter interrupted with a grin.

Mike put a hand on your shoulder. "If you don't want to go in the deep water, that's fine, too. We usually don't. Micky doesn't float very well. He's too full of corny jokes that weigh him down."

You smile at them, your dear friends who just want to have a fun day at the pool. "Thanks guys, but the deep end isn't the problem. I can swim just fine, it's just… I don't do swimsuits. Not in public. Not with my body"

Four pairs of eyes look at you, dumbfounded at the idea.

"Hold up, hold up," Mike drawled, "You don't wear swimsuits. You? But…" He trailed off, searching for words as he tried to understand.

Davy continued for him. "A beautiful person like you? Have you looked in the mirror lately, love? You're gorgeous! We'd have to fight off the men trying to flirt with you!"

You blush, but don't give in. "No, no. It's not happening, guys."

Micky looks up for a moment, his face scrunching into one of deep thought. "Aha!" he shouts suddenly, "I have a solution! Well… many solutions, but this one's best! Monkees, assemble back at home base. We will meet you tomorrow, dear."

Without giving you much of a chance to agree or disagree, they hurry away, Davy blowing a kiss your direction.

—

The next day, there's a knock on your door. When you open it, expecting the monkees, you can't help but laugh. Peter stands in front, dressed in a pink diving suit complete with yellow flippers and a bright orange snorkel. Behind him, Davy wears short red swim trunks mostly hidden by an inflatable giraffe ring around his midsection. Mike is garbed in a formal suit, looking spiffy except for his flipper-bound feet.

Micky takes the cake, though. He sports a yellow sundress and knee-high white boots with a heel that makes him wobble. On his head, he has a rainbow afro wig and oversized lime green glasses.

"What… What?" you ask. There's really no way to phrase the exact question that needs to be asked.

Peter smiles. "We're going swimming!" He does a happy little dance in place, nearly tripping over his floppy flippers.

"But… why are you dressed like… that?" you ask.

Mike takes over. "Well, we figured if we're dressed like this, all the attention will be on us. That way, you can wear whatever you feel comfortable in without fear of being judged." He pauses, then adds, "Plus, it means we won't have to fend off anyone looking for a hot date from you. Cause you know they'll be thinking that!"

Davy brushes your arm gently. "We just want you to have fun with us. I still think you'd look gorgeous in a swimsuit, but today, you can wear whatever you want to the pool with us."

You smile. Of course they would make themselves look ridiculous in an effort to help.

"So… are we going swimming?" Micky asks, giving you his best puppy dog eyes.

With all this sweetness coming from them, there seems to be no choice but to agree.


	9. Tommy, Can You Hear Me?

_My friend Missy likes Roger Daltrey of the Who. Here's some fluff on the set of Tommy._

She couldn't help it. She giggled. How could you not laugh at such a ridiculous performance? And this scene was ridiculous. Actually… the whole movie was, but Missy wouldn't tell that to any of the band members, least of all her curly-haired blond who was currently running in place in front of a green screen, his arms and legs flailing and a goofy grin on his face.

Roger Daltrey, currently in the acting mindset of Tommy on the set of the new movie of the same name, somehow managed to avoid looking at her while he finished up the running scene. Missy wasn't his only distraction, though. The rest of the band was off somewhere around the set, doing various things. Pete was probably arguing about the aesthetics of some scene they had already recorded. Entwistle was likely scaring the interns, 'flirting' as he called it, although his brand of flirting was effective in only a small percentage of women. And Moon… God knew where that mischievous imp had gotten off to. At least he was checked for explosives this morning so there would be no explosions today. Hopefully.

"Cut!" the director called out, and Roger finally got to stop his mock running, his skin gleaming. Some was sweat, as it was quite warm under the lights, and the rest was due to the water he was misted with before he began. One of the 'movie experts' said it would look better if his skin was shiny. Or something like that. The past few weeks of filming and night parties was beginning to blend together in a jumbled mess of Roger Daltrey goodness for Missy.

Roger gave her a hug, dampening the shirt she was wearing. It was his shirt anyways, taken at random in the blind panic that morning when they were told Roger had five minutes to get to work that day. He had mentioned that she looked good in his clothes, and it was comfortable. Plus, it smelled like him. That was always a plus.

"Bravo," she said, hugging him back.

He laughed. "Please, no encores. I'm done running in that one boring spot!"

"Hey! Daltrey! Make-up!" one of the in-charge men hollered, gesturing for the rock star to head back to the corner that was being used as a make-up station. "Getting ready for next scene!"

Missy brushed a stray fleck of eyeliner of his cheek. "You better go wash this off first. We're going to want to start with a new base. Especially if we're going to be doing the job for the scene with Tina Turner. You know the one."

Roger nodded, then lifted her hand up to his lips. He gave it a smooch before saying, "Meet you over there, sweetheart."

She smiled and watched him head to the bathroom, knowing full well he wouldn't do a very good job of removing the current make-up, but not minding. As the film's make-up artist, it was her job to make sure his face and hair looked perfect for each scene. And she wouldn't have it any other way.


	10. No Homework with Dolenz Around

_Originally written by request for a friend on tumblr. I present... Cute Micky Dolenz and Laura._

Micky Dolenz leaned against the desk, arching his back as he stretched before relaxing once more. He stared in front of him for a moment, then turned to look at Laura, sitting in the chair at the desk with notebooks, textbooks, and pens piled in front of her.

Can I help you?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes, m'lady," he replied, putting on an awfully cute fake british accent, "I could use a hand."

"Doing what?" Laura fiddled with the pen in her hand, looking back at the homework she had been doing. It was suddenly a lot harder to focus, her mind more on the man's ass that was so near her homework that it was quite easy to just drift her gaze in its direction. It was a fine sight, much more interesting than her intro to psychology paper. Not that there was much of a competition there.

He looked up in thought for a moment, as if he needed to prepare a response to her question. "Oh, I dunno… I think my fly might need zipping."

She snuck a glance around the front, looking at the zipper on his khaki pants. It was zipped up good and tight, effectively and somewhat disappointingly hiding what was underneath completely. "What, zipping down?" she retorted.

Micky waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

Swatting his arm, Laura laughed. "Micky!"

"You suggested it," he said, laughing along with her.

"So I did…" she replied thoughtfully, then shook her head, "But I have to do this homework."

"Dolenz did not give up. "What if I was your homework?"

"Then I suppose I'd have to do you, wouldn't I?" she said.

He grinned. Then, he heaved himself up onto the desk, plopping down on the pile of books and papers and sitting cross-legged in front of her.

Throwing her hands up in defeat, Laura hollered, "Okay, I give up!"

"Come here, then." He helped her up on the desk so she was sitting in his lap, curled up against his chest. It was so much more delightful than homework.

She sighed happily, both holding and being held by Micky, the feeling mutual. Suddenly, he leaned forward and planted a smooch on her cheek.

"You missed," Laura said.

Micky looked at her, a confused puppy look on his face. "What?"

She grinned and repeated, "You missed." She then gently pulled his face closer and kissed him on the lips. As she was about to pull away, planning on giving him a smug look and some snarky comment, he tightened his hold around her and grabbed her bottom lips with his, continuing the kiss. Not about to argue, she readjusted her own lips against his.

Minutes passed with nothing but the sound of their own breathing and the smooch of lips touching lips. Finally, eyes half-closed in bliss, they pulled apart, Laura resting her head on his chest.

"You know," Micky said, his face oddly serious, "I love you."

"You know," Laura responded, "I love you, too."


	11. Nesmith's Nose

_Okay, lots of swearing here, fair warning. _

_..._

_You've been warned._

_This short one's Mike Nemsith and myself, a ship that my friends sail endlessly. But who's complaining? I love Mr. Wool Hat!_

"Oh fuck, oh FUCK!" Mike held his nose, red liquid leaking out between his fingers.

"Shit, are you bleeding?!" I asked, knowing the answer, "Oh shit! I'm so sorry, Mike!"

He waved a hand, passing it off as nothing. We both knew that it was definitely not nothing, and that the pain was, well… painful.

It had started out with the typical morning. I woke up first, but only by a fraction. As soon as I began to lift my arm off of his chest, the way we had fallen asleep, his eyes opened and turned towards me.

No words were needed, just smiles and glances at each other. We got dressed for the day, knowing company was supposed to be over later, and I went down to the kitchen to stare at the food and decide what we wanted to eat. Mike covered the bed with the blankets, making it look halfway presentable, and slipped down to the kitchen as well. I didn't notice his presence, not at first.

Not until I tugged a frying pan out from under the tower of pots and pans we kept in the cupboard. Once it was finally free, the effort I had been using to pull continued just a bit too long, and the frying pan was pulled through the air behind me. Unfortunately, it wasn't the only thing behind me.

Mike had situated himself to prepare to hug me from behind, but hadn't even reached out for the hug when a frying pan smacked him straight in the face, knocking his wool hat off his head.

Now, standing there, he refused to acknowledge that I was in the wrong. He held his nose, strong and silent, and tried to grin at me through the pain. "Don't worry about it, love," he said, "I needed a good smack with a frying pan, anyway."

"You dork," I replied. I grabbed him a towel for his nose, then added, "I love you."

He tipped his head back, covering his nose with the towel, speech becoming difficult with blood coming out his nose. "I lub you, too."


	12. Sick on Petty's Birthday

_My friend Missy was sick on Tom Petty's birthday, so I wrote her a little something Beatles related. ...I write a lot for Missy..._

Suddenly, she wasn't sure why she agreed to have the party at her place. Petty had his own home, why couldn't they have done it there? Now, with the living room slowly filling up with classic rock stars just as quickly as her stomach filled up with dread, it all started to seem like an awful idea.

"You okay, love?" John asked, hugging her gently from behind, "You look a bit tense." He had been playing his part as gentleman host, keeping the witty, if not perverted, jokes at a minimum.

She nodded, but looked up at him with round eyes in a pale face. The color had drained out just minutes before.

John peered into her face, squinting at her features. He shook his head. "You don't look so great."

While she might have normally been playfully offended by his comment, she just shrugged, keeping her mouth clamped tight. The sickness in her stomach threatened to defy gravity, and she was going to do all she could to prevent that from happening.

Taking her hand in his and rubbing it softly, he looked into her eyes, mesmerized by them for a moment. "We can kick these losers out, you know. Petty can celebrate elsewhere. He's more George's mate anyway. They can go to Harrison's place and leave us be, yeah?"

Before Missy could respond, she felt that unpleasant tug in the pit of her stomach and rushed off, yanking her hand from John's. The bathroom door slammed closed, echoing through the house.

For a moment, John stood there, frozen, torn. He wanted first and foremost to care for his girl. That was priority. But at the same time, their house was full of people who were all beginning to wander towards the noise of the slammed door, curiosity leading them like sheep.

After a few seconds of internal debate, John rushed after Missy, softly knocking on the door before letting himself in the cramped bathroom.

"Go away," she moaned, leaning against the wall next to the toilet.

John closed the door behind him. "No. I'm here, love."

She closed her eyes and waited for another wave of nausea to pass, panting slightly.

There was a knock on the door, followed by the concerned voice of Tom Petty. "Missy? Are you the one in there? You okay?"

John answered for her. "None of your business, old man!"

Tom laughed a bit. As for many birthdays, the birthday boy was the butt of the old man joke. Turning a whole year older called for ceaseless teasing.

Another voice, muffled by the door, came through. "John, you're in there, too! Now is not the time for a quickie, you wanker!" Paul said.

"You're right, Paulie," John retorted, "A quickie's not enough. We might be in here for a while!"

There was a collective groan mixed with a few giggles on the other side of the door. "That's it then," Paul said, taking charge, "Party's over cause Lennon can't keep it in his pants!"

"Priorities, ya know!" John hollered.

George's slow voice made it through next. "My home is always open, although we have some remodeling messes around."

There was a moment of quiet, then Tom Petty shouted, "Party at Harrison's!"

Footsteps could be heard as the group headed towards the door, a chorus of goodbyes to John and Missy left in their wake.

"They're gone now," John said, his voice suddenly softer and comforting. He lowered himself to sit on the ground next to Missy, gently pulling her to lean on his shoulder and running a hand through her red-orange hair.

"Thank you," she told him, closing her eyes and letting his warmth wash over her.

It would be a rough day for her, but John was sure as hell going to be there for her not only until she felt better, but for as long as he could be. As for Tom, his birthday was a success.


	13. Apologies

_Mike Nesmith x reader (that's you!)_

He had his nose in the fridge as you walked into the kitchen, searching for a snack. You hoped he would search for a while longer, just enough time to squeak by and grab something from the cupboard to quiet your own hunger.

It didn't work. He sighed, finding nothing, then turned around quickly, before you could step out of sight. His gaze locked onto yours for a moment and his face drooped sadly as his eyes searched the features he both loved and, at the moment, hated.

"So. Are you ready to apologize?" he asked, straightening his wool hat.

Thinking he must be crazy if he thinks you need to apologize, you snapped back, "That depends, Michael. Are you ready to move out?"

His face fell, anger melting into sadness. "I haven't packed my things," he mumbled, "But… if that's what you want…" He turned to go, but stopped when you placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Wait," you say.

Mike placed his own hand over yours, removing it from his shoulder, but not letting go. He rubbed the top of your hand with his thumb as he spoke with his slight drawl. "You don't need to apologize. It was my fault, too."

As you opened your mouth to speak, he stopped you, shaking his head. "No, dear, it's okay. I'm sorry. And I will do anything to make you happy. Even if that means moving out."

This time, you shook your head. "No," you managed to utter.

His lips twitched into a slight smile. "I love you," he said, pulling you close into a hug.

"I love you too," you replied, your words whispered into his ear.

He turned his head and planted a kiss on your cheek, then adjusted so they're on your lips. He kissed you passionately, so grateful to be back on speaking terms.

After a while, the two of you finally pulled apart.

"Boy, we are ridiculous," Mike said with a laugh, "Think of it, fighting over… hold on, I forgot what it was we were fighting over."

You pull him close again. "It doesn't matter."

He whispers in your ear, tickling it with his breath. "No, I suppose it doesn't."


	14. Smitten Peter

_Just a little Peter Tork scene._

It started as soon as he walked out the front door, looking up at the wonderful sky and enjoying the warm sunlight radiating around him.

"Oh, hello," he heard from somewhere in front of him, a voice like honey drifting towards him. He looked, and saw the most beautiful girl he had ever seen, more beautiful than he had dared even to imagine.

"Wowie," he breathed, taking a step away from the door. He misjudged, though, and ended up stumbling to the side, straightening up with a a child-like flush of embarrassment.

The girl giggled, her eyes sparkling with kindness and good humor.

"Wow," Peter repeated. "You sure are pretty, miss." He stared at her face, unable to move his gaze to anything else. "Hey, can I malt you a drink?" he asked.

She scrunched her face, confused. "I'm sorry?"

Peter shook his head. "I mean, I…" he shuffled his feet and scratched the back of his head before peering at her once more. "I think I meant to ask if you wanted to… to drink malts together?"

This time she understood. "Oh, yes, sure!"

He grinned, his face lighting up like a child's at Christmas. "Great! I'm Peter! I like chocolate malts best, at least for today!" He walked by her side, wanting nothing more than to stare at her face, hear her voice, and talk to her forever.

His foot, meeting up with a tree root, had other plans. He tripped, flailing to keep his balance. He grabbed on to anything he could, and ended up gripping her arm to stabilize himself. He popped back up, but didn't let go of her arm. Instead, he slid his hand down to hers, tangling their fingers together.

"Gee," he said, "You sure are pretty." It was all that was on his mind. That and bunnies. But mostly her.

"Thank you, Peter," she replied.


	15. A Grouch Amongst The Monkees

_I dunno. Just a little something, I guess. No fluff or romance for once._

As soon as Mickey entered the room with his usual one-liner, I knew it was coming. The others all had that look, that look of glee and anticipation.

"No," I said quietly. Mickey winked, his grin widening.

Their adventure of the day, I swear every day for these boys was a drama, was ending, reaching its resolution. It didn't matter what time it does, the day was almost done. And damn it, I didn't think I could stand another day like the others.

"No," I repeated, a little louder.

No one replied, just continued their own conversation. Something about chimpanzees. I don't know, it had been a long and confusing day. I couldn't really keep it straight in my mind anymore.

Davy glanced in my direction, a soft smile on his face. His eyes sparkled. He was excited, which meant I should be dreading what came next. And I was.

"Noooo," I whined, "Come on, guys, not today."

Again, I was ignored. Peter turned in my direction, his sunshine-y face nearly blinding. I loved Peter, but damn was he overly happy.

Then there was Mike, wool hat and all. He was the one I related closest to. The common sense, the lack of excitement as compared to the others, the sarcastic sass… He was probably the darkest of the Monkees, and still was pretty bright. He, at least, never seemed to have a problem with this.

I tried once more, sensing it was my last chance. "Guys, no, just… no. Don't do it, please!" I pleaded.

It was too little, too late. Out of seemingly nowhere, they each pulled out their instruments. Guitars came from behind couches and a big old drum set was unveiled from behind the curtains that I had assumed covered a window. Turns out they covered a little alcove just big enough for drums.

I plopped down in defeat as they began playing. This was it. Every damn day they had to pop out their musical talent at the weirdest of times, singing lyrics and strumming chords in the middle of conversations. It was annoying.

I leaned back, slouching grumpily against the wall. I caught Micky's eye, sending him a glare. He laughed in my direction, then returned to the song. Mike send me a semi-sympathetic look, but then smiled to himself. I think he enjoyed being the cause of my pain. Davy mouthed a question at me: "Are you sick?"

"Yeah, sick of this," I replied, but my voice was drowned out.

Peter, oblivious to it all, stood with a grin, looking dreamily up into thin air, thinking about something that he made him happy. Probably kittens or fluffy pillows, or rainbows. I would never understand that man.

I would never understand any of them. Or why they wanted a grouch such as myself around. They asked me to live with them. They took me in as one of their own. And all I did was complain about their music.

But COME ON! This just didn't happen in real life, or at least, it shouldn't.

Those Monkees were going to drive me insane…


	16. Illness

_This was requested on a tumblr blog I admin for, so... Sharing it here, too._

They all heard it, a loud series of sneezes from the direction of Micky's room. There was a chorus of "Bless you!" and the matter was momentarily dropped.

Then, the coughing fits started. Micky would be in the middle of a joke, grinning at his own humor, when he would burst into a seemingly endless coughing attack. This lasted two days before the others really started to get worried.

"Micky, I hate to interrupt the coughs, but don't you think you should see a doctor or something?" Mike asked. He had his hands in his pants pockets, but looked sternly at Micky.

With a shrug, Dolenz replied, "Don't worry it's nothing. Just something scratching my throat. A glass of water will clear it up good as new!"

Raising his eyebrow, Mike let it go and walked away. However, Micky wasn't done developing symptoms. He was soon covered in a small but itchy red rash from his legs to his arms. Scratching at it nearly day and night, he quickly attracted attention from the other Monkees.

"Micky!" Peter yelled, shock written on his innocent face, "You're turning polka dotted! What happened?"

Once again, Micky, shrugged it off. "Don't worry, Peter. Must just be the new laundry soap that my skin doesn't like. Besides, polka dots are groovy, right?"

"Yeah, they're alright," Peter agreed, accepting the excuse despite the fact they had been using the same laundry soap for months.

Micky nodded in approval before falling victim to another coughing fit which he passed off as inhaling too sharply.

A day later, though, the intestinal problems began.

"Come on, Micky, you can't keep anything down today," Davy said, "Why don't you just admit that you're sick?"

Micky shook his head. "I'm not sick, though. Must have been something I ate disagreeing with my stomach."

"But we all ate the same things!" Davy argued.

"Guess my stomach's more sensitive," Micky said.

Davy clamped his mouth shut, deciding against arguing with the stubborn Monkee. He left Micky alone to deal with the illness that was claimed to be nothing more than common symptoms of everyday afflictions.

Micky cooked dinner that night, throwing together a quick pasta dish from an old recipe he found. Without even thinking to question Micky's current health anymore, the other three dug in, devouring the simple dish as if it were gourmet.

And that's where they went wrong. In the middle of the night, Davy felt sick to his stomach. Mike was woken up by a burning fire in his throat that made him cough roughly. Peter scratched himself bloody with the rash that started on his hands and spread up his arms. No one was happy the next morning.

No one, that is, except Micky, who had finally gotten over the illness he refused to admit he had.


	17. Davy's Swim Trunks

_This was actually a request, and such a great idea! Hehe, poor Davy..._

The dock was slippery with the water dripping off of everyone's swimsuits. Micky was the first to jump off, racing down the wood planks and into the water with a huge cannonball splash that sent a wave over the dock. His head popped out of the water and he whooped, encouraging the others to come in.

"Unless you're chicken!" he added, swimming closer to the dock.

It had been a fun day of relaxing in the sand and wading in and out of the water until Micky found the old dock, and then it just gotten more fun.

Mike followed, his goofy side showing through. He walked most of the way up the dock with you, Peter and Davy, then took a small running start and dove smoothly into the water, his feet disappearing below the waves last with nothing more than a ripple. He rose to the surface, hand clutching the green wool hat he had forgotten to take off his head. He was laughing uncontrollably along with Micky.

Peter was next, running clumsily before leaping up and flailing in the air before hitting the water feet first, nearly landing on top of Mike. He too came up laughing, having a wonderful time.

"You go ahead," Davy said with a smile. You lined yourself up at the edge of the dock as the guys made room in the water for you. You dove in, hoping it was as graceful as Mike's had been. Or better.

When you surfaced, Davy grinned and leaped off the dock, landing close to you with a pencil dive, feet first, but barely disturbing the water. While everyone else had come up laughing, Davy's head bobbed up over the waves with a look of shock. Micky, Mike, and Peter were already engaged in a splash war, and didn't notice.

"What's wrong?" you asked Davy.

He mumbled something and backed away from you, looking down nervously.

"Davy, what is it?"

He bit his lip, then muttered, "I lost me trunks…"

"Well let's find them!" you said before fully realizing what that meant. Without his trunks, the man was stark-naked, treading water a few feet from you.

He looked down again nervously, his shoulders moving slightly as he did his best to cover any indecencies. "If I dive down, my arse is gonna be visible… I… I don't want you to see that."

You shrug. "Okay, I'll grab them." Before giving him time to answer, you dive down and take a look through the slightly murky water. You can't help but notice that Davy has his hands placed perfectly so nothing indecent can be seen from the front. Half-relieved and half disappointed, you direct your gaze to the sand below.

There, a few feet down, a clump of red could be seen settling among the sand. Kicking to propel yourself towards them, you reached out and took hold of the fabric before turning and heading back towards the surface where Davy was still treading water carefully.

"Got 'em," you said with a grin, popping up out of the water and holding the trunks up by his face.

His face brightened as he took them from you. "Oh thank you so much!" he said, bringing them down under water and fumbling around for a moment. His expression filled with relief. "Much better! I could kiss you!"

"Only if you can catch me," you challenge, diving back underwater and swimming away.

Davy followed with a laugh, the chase beginning.


	18. Chocolate Love

_This one was a request, and a lovely request at that!_

Peter stared sadly at the empty candy dish. "All the chocolate's gone," he said morosely.

"Tell me about it," you mumble, "I was really looking forward to eating a piece… I love chocolate."

"Me too," Peter said, then added, "Probably more than anyone else does."

Well, that didn't seem right to you. "I don't think so. I love chocolate more."

Peter looked close at you, furrowing his eyebrows. "No," he argued, "I definitely love it more."

You shake your head. "You're wrong. I do."

He sticks out his tongue. "Nuh-uh! You can't! Because I do!"

"You don't love chocolate nearly as much as I do!"

"Do too!" Peter stamps his foot and pouts. "I love it more than you do!"

"No you don't!" you reply.

Peter crosses his arms. "Yeah-huh! I love chocolate so much that there's nothing I love more than chocolate! Nothing!"

"Doesn't matter," you argue, "I still love it more!"

Peter stays silent for a moment, deep in his own thoughts. He uncrosses his arms and his tense shoulders relax. His face falls from anger to a sweet but embarrassed look. "Actually…" he begins, "Maybe you do like chocolate more, because there is something I love more than chocolate."

"Knew it!" you reply triumphantly.

Peter takes a step towards you, then lets his hand dangle next to yours, brushing his fingers against your fingers. "I love you more than chocolate."

You smile, and when he creeps his hand closer to hold yours, you allow it, squeezing his palm gently. "I love you more than chocolate, too."

He grins and pulls you into a hug. "I love you more, though," he says mater-of-factly before letting you go.

"But you can't," you argue, playfully pushing at his chest, "Because I love you more."

"Nuh-uh! I love you more!" Peter replies, getting a bit irritated.

You give him a glower. "No. I love you more."

"No! I do!"

"No, me!"

"Nuh-uh!"

"Yeah-huh!"

Meanwhile, in the room over, Mike rolls his eyes. "They're at it again," he informs the other Monkees in the room as if they can't hear the shouts as well.

"Aw, let 'em go at it. They'll kiss and make up later," Davy said with a passive wave of his hand.

And he was right.


	19. Picnic With Peter

_Cute Peter being cute and kinda childish. _

Peter walked in the dark room, looking around before setting his eyes on you. He headed to the couch you sat on and gently pulled on your arm.

"Peter, what are you doing?" you whispered hoarsely, hoping he couldn't see your puffy red eyes.

He smiled, still gently tugging on your arm. "You gotta come see, you gotta!"

"See what, Peter?" you asked, not giving in.

"Come on, I'll show you!"

You sigh. "Not now, Peter."

He let go of your arm and stood facing you for a moment, his smile falling into a sad puppy-dog look. "Please?"

"I'm sorry, I'm just not in the mood," you protested.

He lowered himself to sit next to you on the couch, wrapping his arm around you and holding you close to his chest. Rubbing your back with one hand, he whispered in your ear. "I promise you'll like it."

When he didn't get a response, he tried again. "If you come with, I'll leave you alone. Otherwise… I'm gonna have to…"

He paused dramatically, lifting his arm up from around you as a mischievous smile formed on his lips. He suddenly thrust his arms towards you and ran his fingers over your stomach, effectively tickling you. He moved to all your ticklish spots as you uncontrollably wriggled and giggled.

"Come with me and I'll stop!" Peter announced, laughing along.

"Okay!" You finally said, "I give up!"

He took his hands back, ending the torture, and planted a small smooch on your cheek. He then took your hands and pulled you up from the couch. "Yay! Let's go!"

He led you to the door as you obediently follow. "I'm not happy about this, though," you remind him, but you can't help but smile at his antics.

"You will be," he said assuredly. He led you outside into the blinding sunlight. As your eyes adjusted, you couldn't help but gasp.

In the grass, there was a small soft blanket. Sitting on that was a small open basket with your favorite food and bottles of juice. Arranged around that were some stuffed animals in bowties, two holding wine glasses, two holding silverware, and one with paper plates on its lap.

"Have a seat," Peter offered, gesturing towards the blanket which was covered with daisies, sunflowers, and rose petals. He grabbed one of the daisies and placed it behind your ear, sweeping aside your hair as he did so. He then took a seat across from you.

"Pour us a drink, Teddy?" Peter said, directed towards one of the plush bears. He then took the juice and poured some of it into a wine glass. "Thank you Teddy." He gave the glass to you, then poured one for himself.

"Wow," you said, having no other words.

"Welcome to Cafe Tork, m'lady," he said, giving you a loving grin.

"Thank you, Peter," you say.

He nodded. "You looked like you needed a bit of cheering up. And Sir Teddy and I can help with that!"


	20. Haunted House

_Happy Halloween, Classic Rock fans! This one's about Peter Tork._

Peter had been so excited for the haunted house; he hadn't stopped talking about it for a week before Halloween! Looking back, you don't think he quite understood the concept of a haunted house…

At the front gate, standing in front of high arching fences in front of dark, gloomy hedges, his excitement began to ebb away. The man collecting the tickets was dressed as a vampire with dark red goo dripping down his face. His irises were white thanks to the world of colored contacts. You had expected as much, but Peter was staring at the man wide-eyed. He clasped your hand and squeezed tight for a moment.

"You ready for this?" you asked.

He nodded. "Yeah… Yeah, it'll be fun."

The two of you gave the vampire your tickets and begin the walk along the haunted pathway to the haunted house amongst the haunted trees. It had been a cold fall, so the trees were spookily missing their leaves, and the grass was deadened and grey. The sun's fading light cast shadows everywhere, many of which attracted Peter's attention, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow.

"Here we go," you said as you reached the front door.

Peter gulped loudly, but said nothing, just readjusted his grip on your hand.

You opened the door, and a wave of fog rolled out, lit up by flashes of red lights. Peter at your side, you walked in through the door, looking around in the dim light intermittent with sporadic flashes of light. Behind you, the door slammed and Peter leaped into the air.

"It'll be fun," he mumbled nervously, eyes wide, trying to take in his surroundings. When the light flashed, you could see skeletons dangling from the ceiling, swaying in the draft that swept through the house. Cobwebs hung from high up, thick and white, dotted with what you hoped were fake spiders, not the real kind.

From behind a skeleton, a figure in black reached out and gently brushed your arm. You squealed and jumped into Peter, laughing almost instantly. Peter stumbled to the side and into the body of a masked man. This man raised one hand that held a bloody knife, then another hand that held a manikin head by the hair, the face drawn into one of pained horror.

Peter screamed and raced ahead, pulling you with him. He ran himself into a corner where a coffin was standing upright. He squatted near the ground, breathing heavily, his face pale.

You touched his shoulder, about to ask if he was okay. Before a word could escape, though, the coffin behind you creaked open, revealing a passage further into the house. Simultaneously, the sound of a chainsaw began from where you came from, a figure in the distance getting closer.

Peter jumped to his feet, and pulled you close. "Help," he whispered, near tears.

"This way," you said, leading him into the coffin and out into another room. "Peter, it's fake, okay, it's all pretend, I promise. Just for fun."

He gave you a mournful look. Then, his eyes slide past you and he screamed as he stared at something behind your head.

Another vampire, this one with blood-red dripping hands as well as a face of the same goo, stood there. He began his bit, with the stereotypical "I vant to suck your blood," but paused. His hand went to his mask, pulling it aside to reveal a normal human face.

"Is he okay?" the vampire pretender asked, gesturing towards Peter.

Tears were dripping down Peter's impossibly pale face as he leaned against the wall, one hand holding yours, the other across his chest. His heavy breathing had become quick and shallow, and his eyes nearly popped out of his face.

"It'll be fun," he muttered to himself quietly.

The vampire man looked from Peter to you. "Here, if you guys are done, I can lead you out the quickest way, no unnecessary scares. He doesn't look so good."

You nodded. "That would be nice, thank you."

For the rest of the haunted house, you and Peter followed the man, who warned you ahead of time of each booby trap and every jump-scare. Finally, you reached the exit, Peter's grip on your hand steely.

Back in the normal world, the moon had lit up the ground and a streetlight shone brightly. Peter's eyes still darted around in fear, but he began to relax slightly at the lack of spooks. The vampire man, his mask still in his hand rather than on his face, reached into his pocket and pulled out an assortment of candy.

"Here, man," he said to Peter, "Eat this. It'll make you feel better, bring some color to your face." He gave the two of you a quick wave, then jogged back into the house.

"Peter?" you said, putting a hand on his cheek.

His darting eyes found your still, concerned ones, and he relaxed a bit more, his tense shoulders drooping. "I never want to do that again," he said, "that was NOT fun."

You smiled. "Okay. No more haunted houses."

He pulled you into a tight hug. "Thank you!"


	21. Micky Cheers You Up

_Cute Micky being cute to you. MickyxReader. Goodness, I write a lot of this fluff stuff... Do you guys prefer romance or friendship short stories?_

It had been a rough day. Nothing seemed to be going right, people were rude, the weather was disgusting, and the latest project you had been working on was turning out to be a flop. The cherry on the top was stubbing your toe on the corner of the table, and that was it. Tears brimming, you slid to the floor, huddled with your face buried in your knees.

A gentle touch on your shoulder caused you to look up. A quiet voice asked, "are you okay?" It was Micky, dear sweet Micky, who was always there for a giggle. Micky, the one with the ridiculous antics. Suddenly, he was dead serious.

"Yeah," you tried to say, but it came out as a squeak, so you just nodded your head.

Micky kneeled down to your level, massaging your shoulder. "Hey, it's okay. I'm here for you." He plopped down to sit beside you, pulling you close.

That was it. The kindness broke the dam, and the flood of tears gushed freely. You leaned into him as he held you tight, caressing your hair and soaking up your tears.

After a time, you composed yourself enough to sniffle to a stop and pull away from Micky's warm embrace. "I'm sorry," you said.

He smiled. "Don't be, baby. It's okay." He stood up, then held out his hand to you. Taking it, you're helped up by him.

"Thank you," you said, wiping your eyes.

He nodded. "What do you say we go do something fun?" he asked, eyes sparkling.

"Like what?" you had to ask a bit cautiously.

"Oh… you'll see," he said with a grin, grabbing your hand in his, "Promise it'll be a groovy time." He winked, but not suggestively. It was a friendly wink, as if you were sharing an inside joke.

With a moment of thought, you agreed, smiling at the expressive, toothy grin that appeared on his face. "You better get ready to have a ball!"


	22. Mike at the Club

_Little bit of MikexReader. _

The club was crowded with young bodies dancing and chatting and all around having a good time. Although their were plenty of attractive women, Mike was not impressed. They were pretty, but not his kind of pretty. He wasn't sure exactly what he wanted, but it wasn't any of them.

The one dancing among a throng of men had crazy eyes, eyes that scared him. She was real cute, but something about those eyes warned Mike away.

Another was laughing loudly across the room, her voice carrying obnoxiously to his ears. She had that laugh, the one that crashed into his eardrums and scratched and tore at his sanity. She too was a bombshell, but that laugh… Mike couldn't do it.

Then there were the girls who were taken. It wasn't even worth scoping them out; Nesmith wasn't that kind of guy. It just ain't right taking away a girl from someone she was happy with, at least that's what he thought.

All in all, the club was full of women he couldn't, or wouldn't, chat up.

With a sad smile, Mike sat stood on the sideline with his drink, a coke that he swirled around in his hand.

Enveloped in his thoughts, he didn't notice when you walked in, just stared at the ice in his glass. A few minutes passed before he looked up again, squinting around the room as he debated whether or not to just leave.

Then, his eyes caught yours. And he was suddenly a little less interested in ditching the place. He set off in your direction, his long legs leading him deftly through the crowds.

"Hello," he said as he approached you.

You nodded. "Hi."

He stuck out his hand. "I'm Mike. May I ask your name?"

You gave it and he shook your hand in greeting, thinking it might be his lucky night. Meeting someone like you was more than what he had dared to hope for.

"Can I buy you a drink?" he asked, walking towards the bar with you, occasionally leading through a small hole in the crowds.

You nodded. "Sure, a coke would be alright."

He smiled and asked the bartender for a coke, then turned to look at you again. He really couldn't stop looking at your features. Your eyes, your nose, your lips… A slight shiver went down his back as he studied them, wondering what it would be like to kiss them. But he shook that thought away for the time being. That, if fate was kind, would come later.

"So, Y/N, what is it that brings you here tonight?" he asked, trying to start up a friendly conversation.

You reply and the two of you spend a good time chatting. Mike smiled a lot, and his eyes never strayed, but stayed on your face, completely enthralled in what you had to say. Oh yes, he was more than glad that he stayed, just so he could meet such a wonderful person as yourself.

As the night continued on, his fondness grew.

"You're the most beautiful person in the room," he said, grabbing your hand for a moment, "And by far the most interesting. Thank you for taking time to talk to me." He kissed your hand quickly, then was pushed aside by a chain of dancers, many of which were intoxicated.

"Goodbye Y/N" he called out through the passing bodies. By the time the train had passed, Mike had disappeared.

But it didn't really matter. You two had a date next Tuesday. You'd be seeing him again.


	23. Clumsy Micky

_Micky Dolenz has a clumsy day. Little bit of MickyxReader._

Micky woke up to the sound of Mike pounding on his door for him to wake up. He jumped awake, flailing against the grip of his sheets until he flopped off the bed. "I'm up, I'm up!" he called out to Mike, his hair sticking out wildly.

He quickly ran to his closet and threw on a shirt and pants, tripping and nearly falling on his face as he did so.

Meanwhile, Mike continued to pound on the door rhythmically, calling out Micky's name every so often. When Micky opened the door, he almost got a punch in the face.

"Whoa, look out!" Micky hollered, ducking to avoid Mike's hand.

"Relax, man," Mike replied, "I wouldn't hurt you. Now come on, we got things to do."

Throughout the day, Dolenz had to deal with things ranging from doors opening into his face, things on the ground jutting up just to trip him, and the occasional dance done just to keep himself upright. Gravity was not his friend, it seemed.

Heading back home, Micky slapped himself in the forehead. "Mike, I forgot my coat at the bank."

"Better go get it then," Mike said. He then added, "You want me to go with you, man?"

Micky shook his head. "I'll see you back home." He walked back to the bank for his coat.

On the way, he tripped over his shoelace the moment after it untied itself. He surged forward, hitting the ground with a smack. He lay there for a moment before he decided to get back up. As he did so, he noticed a pair of shoes racing towards him.

"Are you okay?"

He heard the voice, your voice, and rose to his feet, dusting himself off before turning to face you. "Yeah, 'm alright."

As soon as his eyes met yours, his face flushed slightly, suddenly embarrassed that he had fallen in front of someone so beautiful.

"Are you sure? You're bleeding!"

He looked down and say that, yes, he had a small scrape on his hand. "Oh, look at that. I guess I am," he said, then smiled and went into a melodramatic act. "Oh dear me, the trail of crimson blood! It bleeds, it bleeds! I am wounded, _wounded_, and shall never be the same… What could aid such a horrible affliction?"

You giggled despite trying to hold it back. "A bandage?" you suggested.

He continued on. "A bandage? Oh but tis only temporary, that bandage. It won't last, no… But what else is there?" He paused, then sent a quick wink to you, so rapid you almost missed it. Then he continued. "But aye, there is something. A kiss, a kiss. Yes, a lovely kiss would last a lifetime from the lips of an angel."

He turned expectantly to you. When you said nothing, he added, "M'lady… are you an angel?"

You shook your head. "Me? No, I don't think so."

"Ah, the angel doesn't think she's of the divine! What a laugh, what a grand joke!" he said, "But yes, you are an angel. And if not today, I would like that kiss one day."

You blushed. "We'll see," you said.

Micky dropped the act and introduced himself, completely forgetting about his coat at the bank. He waled with you for a while, making sure to tie his shoelace beforehand. With that danger out of the way, he still managed to run into a pole while animatedly telling you a story. He shook it off quickly. His day had been much improved by meeting you, and no amount of attacking poles or mischievous shoelaces could change that.


End file.
